Birds of a Feather
by Minuteman 2492
Summary: Rhodesians Never Die, that's what they say. But with the Bush War at an end and the soldiers of Rhodesia having left their home to become scatterlings of Africa, it becomes a search for another cause to serve, one that is just as proud as one's former nation, once called God's Country.
1. Prelude: 1978

"Blue Section, this is Tower. You are all cleared for immediate takeoff. Wait your turn. After takeoff, remain orbiting until all aircraft have assembled."

"This is Blue Leader, acknowledged."

In the cockpit of his Hawker Hunter, Sub Lieutenant Chris Gerry sat on the sweltering tarmac at the Thornhill airbase. It may have been fall, but that meant little when there was nothing but dead air outside and one was on blacktop, in a metal aircraft, more specifically in a darkly colored cockpit, laden down with survival gear. He wiped some sweat from his face, the only part of his head that wasn't covered by the flying helmet. Suddenly, the high-pitched whines of the idling Rolls-Royce engines was punctuated by a roar, and soon enough, Squadron Leader Wightman's fighter went rocketing down the runway.

"Time to go."

Gerry reached down and flipped several switches, and soon enough he began to feel the cure-all of slightly cool air on his sweat-drenched flightsuit. Takeoff was soon, and he wouldn't be wasting _too much_ fuel. The fact they could fly at all was a miracle, and while the logistics brown jobs studied their fuel consumption like they were the BSAP searching a crime scene, they weren't wrong. _But then why do they even fly the Viscounts then?_ he thought to himself.

 _The Viscount. ZANLA._ He paused as his face involuntarily contorted with barely-contained fury. But now wasn't the time to seethe over the shootdown. He had a job. The pilot reached up and back, grasping the canopy. Pulling it forward, he reached over to the left side of the cockpit and moved a lever forward until it clicked into place. Looking up again, he saw the second Hunter had launched off. Moving the throttle up inch by inch, he came up only a few feet from the aircraft in front of him.

He looked down at his translucent right knee pocket and leaned down slightly to get a better look at the paper inside.

"Trim, one half degree up." he clicked the device on his stick once quickly. "Fuel…booster pumps on, no warning on, transfer indicators in-line." he looked to check. Everything was as it should have been, no screaming in his headset and no amber lights flashing. "Tank selector switches at auto, drop tank indicators black." he checked again. "Flaps, up." as he confirmed the checklist's requirements.

Looking up, he saw the final fighter in front of him had just come onto the centerline. Pushing the throttle forward again, he drew it back almost as soon as he felt motion. Reaching up with his toes onto the top of his rudder pedals, bringing the aircraft to a slow halt, holding short as the Hunter pilot in front did his final checks.

"Blue 3, departing."

Immediately, the Hunter began to move. As it came to the halfway point down the runway and began rotating skyward, Gerry moved the throttle forward, and began slightly pressing on the left rudder to bring himself in line with the white stripes on the black tarmac. Drawing back the throttle and pressing the toe brakes again, he looked down at his checklist once more.

"Nosewheel steering on, toe brakes on, power to one hundred percent…Tower, this is Blue 4."

"Tower, go ahead Blue 4."

"Blue 4 departing."

"Roger that Blue 4, cleared to depart, good luck up there

"Thank you tower, Blue 4 departing."

Gerry began easing the throttle forward. As it came close to the full forward, he slowly let off the brakes, and aircraft began moving forward, quickening by the second. "One two five knotsrotate." he said out loud as he slowly drew back on the stick, unsticking the nosewheel. As the aircraft passed 150 knots on the airspeed indicator, he felt a slight rise, and the aircraft began rising skyward.

"Gear up." he flipped the lever in the cockpit up, and the hydraulic motors began whirring as the nose and main gears came into place. Craning his head around, he spotted the remainder of his Section in a racetrack pattern around the airfield. Checking his speed, he brought the aircraft into a steep turn to catch up with the rest of the Section. "Blue Section, this is Blue 4, coming up on your six."

"Blue Leader, roger that Blue 4. Blue Section, turn heading three-zero-zero, standard right-hand formation."

Gerry banked his aircraft to 300, ensuring he was slightly behind the rest of the formation. Coming up off Blue 3's right wing, he adjusted his trim and throttle to a point where he was keeping pace slightly behind Blue 3.

"Blue Leader, Blue Section, keep altitude at five-zero-zero AGL."

Low. Lower than usual. But nothing about the day's sortie was usual. As the Section of Hunters soared above the thick bush towards the Zambezi, Gerry looked out of his cockpit at the earth, wondering if there were some troopies down there looking up at them as they went on the raids of their own

…

Below the fighters, a wide brown river passed quickly, and then more Central African jungle. But Blue Section wasn't over Rhodesia anymore. Now below them was Zambia, though the old-timers still called it Northern Rhodesia, and soon enough, if things went tits-up, they'd be in the thick of it with the Zambian military. The formation continued flying. Over the radios, silence.

In the distance, Gerry spotted a clearing, a big sandy rectangle sticking out like a sore thumb in the bush. Little dots all around it, and a big square training or parade ground in the center. As if on cue, the headset crackled to life. "Blue Leader, Blue Section, climb to 10 angels, begin Operation Gatling."

Grabbing his oxygen mask, the pilot quickly secured it to his helmet, and flipped a switch on the left side of the console as he began to breathe. Pushing the throttle forward, the pilot pulled back on the stick, the G forces pushing him into the seat as his Hunter pitched up and the altimeter began spinning like a ceiling fan as he approached 10,000 feet above sea level. Pushing the aircraft over, his straps struggled to keep him in his seat as the positive Gs turned into negative in a split second.

"Blue Leader, Blue Section, initiate a left-hand racetrack pattern above Westland's Farm, from left to right, break and begin your runs and return to altitude."

Looking out over his left wing, Gerry saw Blue 2 bank over, and dive towards ZANLA's camp. Turning into a left turn, he trimmed the aircraft appropriately, and waited patiently for his turn. As Blue 2 began accelerating back up to rejoin the formation, Blue Leader banked over and began his own run. And again for Blue 3. Gerry waited, gripping his control stick tighter and tighter.

Looking down, he saw Blue 3 complete his run, and begin pitching up and away from the camp. He yanked the aircraft into a diving turn, letting out quick and sharp bursts of air as he drew back the throttle. Taking his finger off the trigger at the front of the stick, Gerry instead placed his thumb on a red button on the corner of the stick. The ground grew larger and larger in his windscreen, and he could see the figures scattering in panic as the air attack continued. Quickly pressing the release switch, he felt two lurches as a pair of fragmentation bombs left his aircraft.

Pulling up slowly, he counted twice, and hit the throttle to one hundred percent, banking up towards the remainder of his Section. Pulling back into his number four position, Gerry looked out towards the camp. From the air, he could see columns of dust and smoke from the bombs they had just dropped. The carnage on the ground though, he couldn't imagine it. But any sense of pity was wiped away by the memories of what had happened to the Viscount.

"Blue Leader, Canberras are inbound. Blue Section, on me, echelon turn 110 towards Lusaka Airport."

As they orbited above Lusaka Airport, the helmet radios of the pilots once again crackled to life, and the slightly nasally British accented voice of Squadron Leader Chris Dixon from Green Section came over it.

"Lusaka Tower, come in."

There was a pause, and then a calm African voice, with the sounds of panic and commotion in the background, came over. "Go ahead."

"Tower, this is Green Leader. This is a message for the station commander at Mumba…from the Rhodesian Air Force. We are attacking the terrorist base at Westland's Farm at this time. This attack is against Rhodesian dissidents, and not against Zambia. Rhodesia has no quarrel, repeat, _no quarrel_ , with Zambia or her security forces. We therefore ask you not to intervene or oppose our attack. However, we are orbiting your airfield at this time, and are under orders to shoot down any Zambian Air Force aircraft which does not comply with this request and attempts to take off. Did you copy all that?"

"…copied."

"Roger thanks, cheers."

There was to be no chit-chat on the radios, but Gerry looked over at Blue 3 to see what his reaction was. The former flashed a quick thumbs-up. The other seemingly thought for a moment about what to do. He unhooked his mask for a moment, and smiled back at Gerry, returning his thumbs-up.


	2. Chapter 1

_1982_

"Name?" a voice said in a thick Afrikaner accent.

Chris Gerry looked up at the man in a nutria brown uniform festooned with medals that had finally shown up to the interview and CV review. "Ten minutes late",he thought, but he bit his tongue. He was already in deep enough shit as a Rhodesian, even if he was only really half Rhodie. Unless he wanted to be stuck in a shitty soul-crushing office job in Cape Town or Pretoria, or worse yet, returning back to Mugabe's new communist hellhole, he had to be nice and ingratiate himself.

Though it was not going to be easy to ingratiate himself with the hulking interviewer. The man was obviously not designed to be appealing to new arrivals. He had piercing eyes, and a web of scars all over his face. If he had been in Salisbury, he would have thought he was a former Scout or Rhodesian SAS, but the accent gave it away. He was neither of those. If anything, he had been Recce before, or, just as likely, bog standard infantry who caught an unlucky shell and just happened to be the scariest man they could find to interview people.

"Chris Gerry."

"You have your CV as requested?"

"Of course." Gerry said, standing up and handing the interviewer a manila folder that contained his life story.

"Please, sit." the man responded, taking a seat in his own chair behind the table in the Pretoria office. Gerry obliged him. He opened the folder and began thumbing through each of the pages. Whether it was theater or not, his eyes said it all, slowly scanning left to right, one line at a time. Minutes passed, and the man cocked his head, looking back up at the pilot.

"You were in the Rhodesian Air Force?"

"Yes, from 1977 until-"

"I'm sure I know when. 1980, when Mugabe, Nkomo, and their armies of kaffirs who could barely fight a war somehow took over."

"…yes."

"Could you please explain to me how you are somehow qualified to fly the Cessna Skymaster, Hawker Hunter, _and_ Alouette III?"

"In the Rhodesian Air Force, it was expected that within several years from graduation from basic pilot training, any pilot would be expected to be able to pilot any of the major aircraft in the fleet. I never received training on the Vampire, Canberra, or those newer Israeli choppers we got in 1979."

"Do you have combat experience? Your CV mentions nothing about combat flying."

" _Don't sell yourself short. Be arrogant. They want mercs, not officers and gentlemen."_ he thought. He took in a deep breath. "I would think that it would be obvious that as a pilot in the Rhodesian Air Force, I would have seen combat." he responded, playing up his very slight Afrikaner accent.

"Then spit it out, what did you do? Do you have specific numbers of hours?"

"I can't say I do, I wasn't thinking Rhodesia would fall. But if you must know, I was on Operation Gatling, you know, the daring raid into Zambia?"

"That's all well and good. But that is fixed-wing. War is changing here in Africa, helicopters are the wave of the future. What about rotary wings?"

"During my first year in the Air Force, I was an Alouette III pilot flying Fireforce missions in a G car. I couldn't count how many missions I flew, but if we had a day's rest in between, it was a good week."

"So you flew consistently for three years?"

"In a manner of speaking yes, save for leave and, of course, as it was coming to an end, the tempo dropped dramatically. But I'm certainly not rusty, not yet."

"Impressive. We'll see about the second part of your statement later. We've got a lot of applicants, you're just one, so no need to waste both of our time. One final question. Why do you want to work for CFA? Why not just join the South African Air Force?"

"Because I hear the SADF is handing off operations to CFA, and I want to get on the train coming into the station. Besides, if I wasn't shooting at floppies at the air from a chopper or plane, what else could I do?"

The interviewer nodded and handed the manila folder back to him. "I see. We will be in touch as to the status of your application. Be prepared to move at a moment's notice if we decide that we are in need of your services."

"Thank you."

The man grunted. "Go." he said. Gerry was more than happy to oblige. Being in the same room with him felt like being in one with a wild animal that would savage you if you gave it the wrong look.

…

 _1984_

"Clear the goddamn helipad you bunch of doosen!"

Gerry leaned out of the clear bubble that was the cockpit of his Alouette III, attempting to scream over the roar of the helicopter's engines, and gesturing outward with his left hand. Orthodoxy said that the right was the pilot's seat and the left was the copilot's, but orthodoxy meant little if you were going to be shit at flying. And besides, being on the right meant having to pass up some of the fun of being a PMC pilot. Yelling at stubborn brown jobs, shooting at MPLA terrs with a pistol during racetrack fire support patterns, all kinds of reasons to prefer the left.

Finally, as the chopper came even closer to the ground and began kicking up dust and sand, it seemed as if the blind and deaf ground crew regained their senses and began getting out of the way of the incoming Alouette. Sometimes he wondered how many of the troops in the CFA had worked closely with the Air Force, or had military experience at all. Not that saying it out loud would gain anything other than a busted jaw. Military experience or not, they were all tough guys, always looking to prove their worth.

As the Alouette drew closer to the ground, it kicked up more dirt and sand from the helipad and the surrounding ground, engulfing the chopper in what looked like a mini sandstorm. "Brownout." Gerry growled, putting down his helmet's visor as the dust began swirling around the cockpit.

Drawing back on the throttle, he began to count off, "Five, four, three, two, one…". On cue, he felt the wheels make contact with the ground. But that didn't change the swirling cloud of dust. Drawing back the throttle, he reached over to the center console, and clicked off several switches. As he did so, the high-pitched whine of the helicopter's turbine and the _thwocka thwocka_ of the rotors grew quieter and slower. And with it, the duststorm dissipated.

Undoing his crash harness, Gerry brought his right leg in, bringing the kneeboard closer to him. He turned to the commandos he had just ferried back who were looking at him expectantly for a debrief, or better yet, an invitation to celebrate another successful mission. Gerry waved his hand "Just a second. Gotta write down how many terrs we got and things we broke. How many you reckon we got?".

One of the younger recruits piped up. "I'd reckon at least fifty MPLA"

"No harm in adding fifty percent then, we're not sure exactly how many after all, are we? 75 MPLA…and what, two BMPs and three lorries?"

"Sounds about right to me." Robert van Bool, the gunner technician on the twenty millimeter cannon the Alouette carried on its port side, added in.

"Alright then…75 MPLA, estimated, 2 IFVs, 3 lorries. A good day as usual." Gerry muttered as he scribbled down the report on a piece of looseleaf, signing and dating it at the bottom left.

" _Now_ we can move on to more important matters." he continued, stepping out of the helicopter and following after the mercenaries towards their tents.

The African sun was hanging low over the savannah, and in a few hours it'd be dark. Unlike in the bush in Rhodesia or the border down south for the troopers in the SADF, the night was the best time. Guards had to be posted, but the MPLA troops wouldn't dare attack anyone in the border region with Zaire. No point ruining relations with one of the few allies they had in the region, or worse yet, attacking the CFA and giving South Africa even more of an excuse to drop a nuclear weapon on them. It didn't matter what they were actually doing, for all intents and purposes, they were a private security force for a legitimate corporation, and any assault on them would be spun as an attack on South African civilians. And spin was everything, a lesson Rhodesia had learned the hard way.

As they assembled around an oil drum turned into a fire pit, Gerry piped up to the rest of the men in his Alouette's stick. "So, you all realize this was our fiftieth mission together right?"

The CFA troops all looked at him sideways as if to say "Yeah, and?". But after a few seconds, some of them began nodding their heads in approval of what had just been implied.

"Oh yeah." one of the Afrikaners responded. "It's also getting pretty dark out, so no worries about any attacks. And better yet I hear tell some of the crates we got in have some supplies for a braai." he continued with a smile.

"Wouldn't it be a waste if we left them? Beer would get skunky before we did another fifty missions." Gerry responded.

"Yes, yes it would."

"Then let's all get together for our fifty-first mission, ensuring that the Angolans don't capture our braai and beer." Gerry said with a chuckle.

…

"I'm telling you, I _was_ on Gatling!"

"Come on Gerry, you keep saying that, but it's just too unbelievable."

"I was in No. 1 Squadron wasn't I?"

"Yeah, well…"

"Everyone in No.1 flew on Gatling. I think you all forget that it wasn't just Chris and his Canberra that bombed Westland's Farm." Gerry said as he took another sip of his beer. The bottle of Amarula liquor had been depleted within an hour of it being brought out. Now all that was left was cheap Zimbabwe beer. It wasn't Rhodie, but it was close enough, and maybe it was made by some old and stubborn ones who followed Smith's example and remained behind to go down with the ship until they could do no more and would have to abandon Mugabe's little tinpot dictatorship.

"I mean, you got a point, maybe you did fly Gatling."

"I always got a point, I'm almost always right."

"Ehhhh…"

"Watch your mouth, don't go putting doubts in my head, I gotta be on my A game when I fly those missions with you all."

"Truth. So how much longer we got out here?"

"I dunno, maybe a month, month and a half? I'm fuckin' drunk man, I don't know." Gerry responded, laughing hysterically as he said the latter half of his sentence. "I just wanna get back."

"Got someone waiting for you?"

"Hah, I left all that behind in Rhodesia, but here in South Africa, I can't say the girls are any less attractive. And with the money we're getting from this, I could get any woman I wanted."

"Ain't that the truth. Should ask for the money in Krugerrands, make like Bokassa, get yourself a throne and a scepter."

"Fuuuuuuck yes. I'd love a scepter."

"Oh yeah, without a doubt."

…

Gerry stumbled into his CFA supplied tent. He stunk of booze, but right now he couldn't care less about that. Collapsing onto his bed, he laid with his head out in case he had forgotten to drink liquor before beer and prepared himself for the raging headache he was about to have in a few hours. But it was worth it. In the Wamboland, every day was a gift, and you had to live it to its fullest. Even if that meant regretting it the next morning.

…

As he woke up, he realized he wasn't lying down. He was sitting, in a rather uncomfortable chair, with a _goddamn fluorescent light_ right in his face. His head was pounding like he has just gotten his ass kicked, and he felt like he was about to throw up. "Did the Angolans get us? Should have just chopped my own fingers and balls off, saved them the trouble." he thought.

He squinted through the assault on his eyes, and saw there was another person sitting across from him at the table, currently impossible to see clearly through the light. But he wasn't Angolan, not from his posture and what he could make out of his uniform.

"Where am I?" Gerry asked.

"We'll discuss that later. We need some information first."

"Fuck you kaffir."

"Not a nice way to start a conversation. Just some basic stuff. What is your name?"

 _What is this, another interview?_

"Chris Gerry."


	3. Chapter 2: Everything Old is New Again

"Affiliation?"

"Rhodesian Air Force."

"Son, don't go trying to be a smartass, it's not worth it right now. It won't get you out, and it won't get you anything more than time here in the brig."

"And what should I do? Zaire, Angola, Cuban, Soviets, I don't know who you are or how you got me, but I already know you're gonna just kill me anyway. May as well get my jollies while I still have a mouth."

The unknown man questioning him sighed. "We're none of those, we're not here to kill you, you

could actually say that we desire your services."

"Then if that's the case, for my first payment, could you please get this damn light out of my face." Gerry requested. "I'm already hungover, I don't need a fluorescent light in my personal space."

The man obliged, moving the lamp up and back towards him, instead having it hang over the center of the table. Now Gerry could get a good look at the unknown man. He had long gray hair, a gray mustache, and blue eyes. _Fair skinned. Not a Cuban or African. Maybe a Soviet?_ But the man also had no Eastern European accent. He sounded American more than anything else. The possibilities ran through his head. CIA? A rival private military? Black ops? But he was wearing a duster and red scarf, more like an old-time cowboy from the Clint Eastwood films he had seen as a kid in Bulawayo than a soldier or CIA suit. He cleared his throat, evidently noticing that Gerry was studying him.

"You see? I'm no Angolan, nor Soviet, no one you fight. Like I said, we're here to make use of the services that you may be able to provide to us."

"You have my interest, and I don't exactly have a choice, so you've got my attention too."

"Good. Let's start over. What is your name?"

"Chris Gerry."

"What is your affiliation?"

"Contract Forces of Africa, _formerly_ Rhodesian Air Force."

"Rhodesia eh? I'll be honest, you're not the first we've gotten from there."

"I'm not? There are others?"

"A few. Former SAS, Selous Scouts, you name it. But you _are_ the first pilot. Seems as if the rest of your fellows have either done whatever they could to get out of southern Africa, or gone to civilian jobs in the country."

"You've gotten my voluntary attention now."

 _Who is this guy? What would make former Rhodies join an organization that-_

"Good. Now we can get down to business."

"Right. You want me to work for you."

"Not me, the Boss does."

"Who?"

"I'll let one of your friends explain, Rhodies you call each other right?"

Gerry nodded. "Come on in Osprey." the unknown man said, standing up, and opening the door to the room. In walked a man in OD fatigues with a patch of a hound on a diamond, with a scroll beneath it reading 'DIAMOND DOGS'. Gerry presumed he was a Scout or SAS operator, well, a former Scout or SAS operator now, judging by the new patch. The scraggly beard and unkempt hair, build like a silverback gorilla, the pseudo thousand-yard stare, he'd seen it all before during his time as a taxi driver for the Rhodesian Army.

The man extended his hand. "Chris Gerry, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. How about you?"

"Steel Osprey."

"Like what is that, some kind of codename? Not allowed to use your real names?"

"Yeah. And you'll get one too whe-if you decide to join."

"So what made you join?"

"Simple. They told me the truth of what brought us all here in the first place."

"How they got you doesn't matter to you?"

The former Rhodie shrugged. "Doesn't now. I'm here, life isn't too bad, and they pay well. They got me from CFA too about a month ago, and I can see their point of view."

"And why might that be?"

He sighed. "Things aren't as they seem in the world today. Rhodesia was a victim of what they're fighting against."

Gerry narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You remember that old Clem Tholet song, how did it go, 'What a time it was, with all the world against us'?"

"Yeah, I remember it playing on the radio every once in a while during '79."

"Apparently there's more truth than any of us thought. Tholet was right, the whole world was against us. Ocelot over there filled me in about Rhodesia. I know what he's about to say will sound absolutely insane, but you have to believe him, and you've gotta realize, no matter what you think, who we're fighting against has no ideological ties. They only work for the betterment of themselves."

The Rhodesian pilot cocked an eyebrow. _What the hell is he on about? A worldwide conspiracy?_

"Let's hear it then."

"Ocelot, all you." Osprey said, gesturing towards the man in the duster. " I know what we're saying sounds like a madman's ramblings, but it'll all make sense." he continued, stepping back as Ocelot stepped back into the light.

He cleared his throat. "You ever wonder why, when you were fighting guerrillas backed by the Soviets and the Chinese, the world didn't help you out at all?"

"I mean, that's kind of true. Portugal helped us out, and so did South Africa."

"But Portugal's government fell in 1974, and in the late 70s, South Africa withdrew its troops, leaving you hanging out to dry. The world has left men like Pinochet and Botha in power, no coup, no nation-killing sanctions. But for some reason, Ian Smith and Rhodesia had to go. You ever wonder why that was."

Gerry sat in silence for several moments. He didn't know exactly what he was getting at, but the former Scout was right, it sounded completely insane. But he was still a captive audience, and he _was_ curious exactly what lay at the heart of this thing. Pressing them a little couldn't hurt.

"Misguided idealism. The world decided that civilized control over nations meant nothing, and that majority rule was the end-all be-all of what made a good nation."

"Then why haven't they stopped ships going to South Africa, or sanctioned any of the tinpot dictators all across the continent, and for that matter, the world like they did to your nation? Doesn't that point to something else?"

Gerry sat in silence. He was right. Why had all these nations that were far worse than even what the foreign press painted Rhodesia as been allowed to survive, while his homeland had been sanctioned to death and abandoned one by one by its erstwhile allies.

He finally found words. "What are you getting at?"

"The world isn't communism versus capitalism. It's them and their decided status quo versus anyone who dares buck the system."

"Them?"

"An organization called Cipher. They're-"

"Hang on, are you saying there's some worldwide conspiracy like the Illuminati?" Gerry cut him off.

Ocelot sighed. "Yes. They're the reason Rhodesia fell. The Cold War is nothing more than a farce. The Contract Forces of Africa and the other private armies don't fight for the West against communism. They've got no ideals they fight for, they just turn to whoever has the most money. And guess who has all that money?"

"These…people? You call them Cipher."

"That's right. They hire out these PFs through the leaders they control. And that's why they turned the world against Rhodesia. They wanted control, but they got a country kicking them off like an angry horse. They couldn't control Muzorewa in 1979 either, and Nkomo got cold feet at the end. So they turned to Mugabe, and that's why he's in control. It was rigged from the start, they wanted someone pliable in control. The campaign to smear Rhodesia, the elections in 1980, the sanctions, all designed to destroy Rhodesia."

Gerry sank back in his chair. He didn't want to believe a word of what was being said, he just wanted to believe it was misguided idealism that killed his nation. But if it really had been, why had they chosen Rhodesia. He had visited South Africa, and apartheid there was far worse than anything he had seen in Salisbury. Yet they had been spared, but they had pulled out of Rhodesia. _Was it really a conspiracy? I can't believe it…but maybe it's not a madman's ramblings._

"And…what do you fight for?" Gerry choked out.

"Osprey." Ocelot said, nodding his head towards the silent Rhodesian.

"We fight against the ones who destroyed Rhodesia. Cipher. We hold no ideological love for communism or capitalism, democracy or authoritarianism. We want freedom from Cipher, but just as much, we want vengeance on them for what they've done to all of us, you and I more than most."

"I…I see."

"We'll let you think it over for a while. Let us know what you decide."

Gerry remained in stunned silence as the two left the brig, closing the door behind them with a metallic _clank_.

…

 _One day later_

The Rhodesian pilot paced back and forth across the room. He had barely slept or eaten since the little speech the Scout and the man named Ocelot had given him about Rhodesia, a worldwide conspiracy, that everything he knew was not as it was. The more he thought about it, the more it bugged him. He thought more and more about what had happened over the past two decades during and since UDI. The criticism of everything in Rhodesia, even things they had never done, the withdrawal of South Africa just as they were dealing blow after blow to the terrs, the nonrecognition of Muzorewa's government, and the elections, if one could call them that.

It couldn't have just been misguided idealism. They got what they wanted in Muzorewa, majority rule. But they wanted ZANU and ZAPU to run. And when they did, countless stories abounded about voter intimidation by guerrillas outside the assembly points. But still, they said it was legitimate, and put Mugabe in charge. Misguided idealism would have brought them Muzorewa, or a do-over of the 1980 elections. They couldn't have been so blind to what was happening.

"It was malice." Gerry spoke out loud to no one in particular. "Malice and murder most foul. If you can hear this, it seems as though you're right. I'll join you. Give me a shot at the bastards who killed my country and my home."

He turned towards the door and waited. He didn't have to wait long. After what could only have been a few minutes, the door opened, and in stepped the Scout, Ocelot, and a new guy, with a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his head, an eyepatch, and a crimson prosthetic arm. Ocelot had a look of satisfaction on his face. "Gerry, I believe it's time you meet the big man. Boss, Chris Gerry, the second Rhodie we got. New Pequod?" he said, motioning to the man with the eyepatch.

He extended his hand, and Gerry grasped it. "Welcome to the Diamond Dogs. You've planted your trust in us to take vengeance for what happened to you, and believe me, I nor the Diamond Dogs will betray you. We're all brothers here. Ocelot." he said.

Ocelot piped up. "I believe part of that is getting rid of your old name. You were a Rhodesian, and the big thing there was the gazelle, right?"

"On the coat of arms? Antelope." responded Osprey.

"And you're a pilot. So, how does Winged Antelope sound? But you'll be known as Pequod on missions."

Gerry shrugged. "Ain't got much choice in the matter. Better than colors and a number, that's for sure."

"Well then, like the Boss said, welcome to Diamond Dogs. You're a diamond in the rough, the Boss saw that. Now it's time to make him proud."

"You remember the old motto of Rhodesia Antelope?" interrupted Osprey. It took a second for the pilot to respond. It was weird hearing something other than his name or a nickname. But he'd have to get used to it.

"Yeah, Sit Nomine Digna. May she be worthy of the name."

"Now it's time for you to be worthy of your own name, more than as a Rhodie, as a Diamond Dog now."


	4. Chapter 3: Acquaintances

Antelope lay on the crash seats of his UTH-66, his head propped up against the fuselage with the pillow from his quarters cushioning it. In his one hand, he stared at the manual for his new bird, and in his other, he absentmindedly motioned with a ballpoint pen as if it were a conductor's baton, humming his own medley of _Winged Assegais_ , the songs he remembered from Rhodesia, and the latest hits in South Africa that he knew about before he had ended up…here.

He didn't know exactly what he had expected of the Diamond Dogs, but it certainly wasn't what he got. An oil rig? How they got it, he didn't know, nor did he want to. Without a doubt though, it certainly was a new experience. He'd swum in the Zambezi, seen Victoria Falls, and holidayed on Lake Kariba, but this would take some getting used to. No land in sight, no landmarks to fly off of, and a tiny base in the middle of the ocean to find.

No town to go to either, just his fellow Diamond Dogs for company. He hadn't met many yet, but whether he liked them or not, he'd have to learn to deal with them and be pleasant at least. If it was anything like the Fireforce deployments, any violations of discipline would be dealt with in a manner he had no intention of finding out for himself.

But more than that, he had a whole new bird to fly.

Just looking at the aircraft, he could tell it was a whole different animal from the Alouette. More things to keep track of in the cockpit than he had fingers and toes, and how it would handle remained to be seen.

It had none of the light elegance of his former choppers, it was big and bulky, and certainly didn't look at first glance like it'd be able to do half of the moves he would pull to bring fire support to troops on the ground.

Although maybe he wouldn't have to fly the tight racetracks he used to. With dual miniguns, and more than likely ammunition to spare, his gunners wouldn't have to make every shot count. _Still wish they'd have given me an Alouette so I wouldn't have to act like I was a dog back at ground school again_ he thought to himself.

 _Not like I've got much choice now. I made the choice to fight for them, now I've gotta-_

"Yo, Antelope!"

He snapped out of his trance and looked up to see another Diamond Dog poking his head inside the Blackfoot's rear compartment.

"What's up?"

"Some of the guys are having a game of blackjack. You wanna join in?"

"Sure, why not, anything is better than sitting here and jerking off. Just letting you know, I got no money, so don't think you're getting jack shit out of me."

"I'm sure someone will be willing to loan money to you, at interest obviously."

"Gotta turn a profit no matter what?"

"For sure."

Antelope tossed his pillow aside and stuffed the Blackfoot's manual into one of the breastpockets of his flightsuit. Swinging his legs onto the floor of the cargo hold, he stepped out of the chopper, sliding the door behind him closed. Jogging to catch up with the other mercenary, he slowed down to keep pace with him. "So…who are you?" he asked.

"Oh, me? Sorry, should have told you. I'm Brown Crocodile." the other mercenary responded.

 _These new names are gonna take some getting used to…_

"And I'm guessing you already know who I am?"

"Yeah, word got around quick that we got a second Rhodesian on the base. Osprey couldn't stop babbling on about it."

"He was that excited?"

"You could say that. I think he was just happy there'd be someone else so he could prove to us he's not crazy and that some stuff was normal in Rhodesia."

"Like?"

"Like having eaten a rotten baboon and liked it."

"I mean, us pilots had to do that too."

"…but did you like it?"

"Oh _hell_ no. It was disgusting."

"Thought as much."

"It was probably the fact the Scouts got starved for days before being allowed to eat that baboon. Anything is good when you're that hungry."

"Still a little weird to still swear by it being delicious."

"You're not wrong there. So where'd you come from?"

"Me? I fought in Grenada during '83, got out thinking I'd like the civilian life. Hated it. Found these guys, joined up, haven't looked back. They pay well, and I can't complain, the work's what I'm good at."

"I see. Is everyone here former spec ops?"

"Not everyone, some weren't even in the military at all and just wanted to do something. Hell, we got some doctors who've joined us."

"They pay them well?"

"Of course. They're mostly not in it for vengeance against Cipher, though Miller and some of the other guys are all about that stuff. I know Osprey is, but he still doesn't hold a candle to Miller."

"Who's Miller again?"

"'Friend' of the Boss and Ocelot. Guy in the beret, missing an arm, jerks off with his good arm to the thought of killing his enemies, that one?"

"Uhhhh huh."

"You'll know him when you see him. Anyways, here we are." Crocodile said, stepping past the sign with a cartoon girl on it saying 'Work in Progress' and turning the corner.

Antelope followed after into the room. It was sterile white, like a lot of the rooms on the rig, with basically no furnishings, save for a flimsy-looking table and some chairs stacked against a wall. Around it sat three men in the same fatigues every mercenary wore in metal folding chairs.

One of them, wearing a visor and an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looked up from the table. "Ah, Antelope, glad you could make it. Welcome to our own little Mother Base casino. Chances to get rich quick abound, try your hand!" he said in a noticeable German accent, punctuating his sentence with a hearty laugh.

Crocodile spoke up. "Antelope, meet Red Falcon and Raging LIzard." gesturing to the visor-wearing dealer and goatee-sporting Indian.

"A pleasure." Antelope said, unfolding and pulling up a chair at the table. "Now, mind you, I don't have any money or things to bet, and I'll be honest, I'm terrible at cards."

"Well, you are the newest one here, why not tell us things about you. We all know you're a Rhodesian, so that one's already out the window, Osprey's let everyone know that."

"Fine by me." Antelope said, sitting down. "Alright, let's go."

The flicking of cards began, and Antelope looked at his hand. A king and a five.

"Hit me."

Another card, this one another five. _Perfect._ He attempted to keep his poker face, though whether or not he was up for debate.

"Anyone else? No? Show your hands."

Antelope tossed down his. "20, none of you gonna beat me boys."

"I beg to differ." said Lizard as he cracked a smile and laid down his cards. A king and an ace.

"Well fuck." Antelope said with a laugh. "You win."

"Alright then, Lizard, you get the chips. Antelope, tell us something about yourself."

"Hmmmm…well, how about the fact when I was brought here, I was recovering from a massive bender the night before?"

The rest of the Dogs chuckled. "Are you serious?" asked Crocodile.

"Embarrassing, but yes. Either I drank beer before liquor, or I just drank so much cheap beer at the braai that I was way too fucked up to sleep. It was closer to a coma."

"I think that's the first time someone's been brought here while hungover. Usually they're captured by the Boss in combat, but taking someone who is comatose from too much booze? That's a new one."

"Wha-how? How do they get people who are shooting at them to do what they want."

"Offer us money and a better life if I'm being honest. That, or Ocelot convinces them over the course of several days." said Viper.

"Why were you drunk in a warzone anyway?" asked Lizard.

"Celebration of my fiftieth mission."

"Fair enough."

"Alright Antelope, I think you've said enough for one hand. Another one?"

"I'm in."

…

The deck of cards lay discarded on the table, and each of the mercs leaned back in their chairs as they continued to converse.

"I've never really understood how you pilots like flying so much, or how you can stand flying helicopters."

"Why do you say that Red?"

"It's really simple." responded the former Fallschirmjager. "You all make fun of us parachutists for jumping out of planes, but think about it. Once we're on the ground, we can always hide or find ways to survive." he continued. "When you're up there, you're at the whim of the weather, your aircraft, enemy fire, and if you get hit, you've just got prayer."

"Suppose you're right. I'd be lying if I didn't say I just about, or did, piss my pants in fear when my helo came under small arms fire the first few times during Fireforce. But damnit, I love flying. It's different from being sealed up in the back as a passenger. When you're in control, you feel like you can take on the whole damn world."

"You're all a special breed of crazy, you know that?" chimed in the former Indian soldier. "I saw enough helicopter pilots doing downright suicidal things in Bangladesh, seems like every pilot's got a damn death wish."

"What can I say? We do some pretty reckless things in combat, but it's a rush like no other when you gamble like that and it works. Flying straight and level at high altitude is safe for sure, but when you're down in the sticks, it's something else."

"Case in point." chortled Lizard.

"Just please don't lose it when I'm zipping you in and out of hot zones, and if you do puke your guts up, don't do it on me."

"I'll try not to strangle you when we land."

"No promises." responded Crocodile.

Antelope looked down at his watch. 2241. "Getting a bit late?" he asked.

"Yeah. I think we'll continue this some other time."

"Alright then gents, it was a pleasure playing and talking with you. See you in a few hours." Antelope said, standing up, nodding at his fellow Diamond Dogs. Walking back out onto the deck of whatever platform he was on, he attempted to retrace his steps in the pitch darkness of the night. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a walkway in front of him, and it certainly looked like the right way.

Walking along, he started humming _Sweet Banana_ to himself, and immediately realized with a start that his Walkman and all his tapes were still the border camp. _Great. Never gonna get those back._

It had been hell to get electronics into the combat zone, and he had no idea how he'd get another. But he was a helicopter pilot. Puff the Magic Dragon flights had gotten away with their antics in Rhodesia, it couldn't hurt to grab himself a Walkman as a detour or have one smuggled onto the oil rig.

As he drew closer to the other platform, he could hear something. _Music. More guys? Can't hurt to introduce myself._

It was pitch-dark, but there were definitely some lights on belowdecks. Coming up to a flight of stairs, Antelope gingerly stepped down them. The last thing he wanted to do was startle a bunch of drunk or hungover mercs who could probably kick his ass. But as he came down to the last step, he heard no voices. No noise but the buzzing of lights and the music. There was a single cell in the middle with a shower and bed, but it was empty. He shrugged, and sat down against a wall near the stairs, taking out his UTH-66's manual. He'd been dozing off all day in the back of his bird and he had just been assigned to become familiar with the helo. Sleep could wait, and maybe some good music would help with studying.

He flipped to the operating limits, scanning the page of numbers. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes, and tried to recite the numbers. _Never exceed speed…193 knots, max weight, 23,500 pounds, cruising…115 knots?_

He opened his eyes and looked back at the ops limits. _150\. Shit, that's right, the Alouette's was 115._

As he studied, he heard a sound like a gust of wind, and instinctively grasped the pages of his manual. He shrugged it off, and continued studying. _Cargo hook limitation, 8,000 pounds, searchlight extension prohibited beyond 100 knots, 180 knots max for extended searchlight. Flight limitations...same as the old Alouette, don't suffocate your crew, yeah yeah yeah._

As the song switched to _Home by the Sea,_ the pilot started to wonder where the music was coming from. It had to be a radio or boombox of some sort. Or better yet, a Walkman. Finder's keepers, and at the very least, he could ransom it off back to its owner for another one.

Standing up, he put his manual back in his flightsuit, and immediately realized that there was someone else in the room with him. Someone had shown up out of the blue inside the cell. He instinctively reached for his sidearm, but quickly realized he had nothing against whoever this was. It looked like a woman inside the once-empty cell. He took a hesitant step forward. It _was_ a woman, a gorgeous-looking brunette in a _goddamn swimsuit_. _Who the he-how the hell? What the hell am I seeing?_

It couldn't be real, it had to be a figment of his imagination from having been in the bush without female contact for so long. He blinked a few times, but the person was still there, leaning against the side of the cell with her arms through the bars, staring at him. It wasn't his imagination. He tried to speak, to ask a question, but all that came out was incoherent, stuttering nonsense. He took a deep breath and tried to speak again. Finally, words, stuttering and shaky as they were, came out. "Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" he asked.

Silence.

"Come on, this can't be real. Who _are_ you?"

Silence.

Looking at her face, Antelope could see she was far from amused by his questioning her. His face felt flushed as she continued to stare at him, following him as he inched his way back. "Okay I…uh…I'm…gonna go now." he stammered out, sprinting out and up the stairs, his steel toed boots clanging on the steps as he bounded up them two at a time. As he reached the top, he kept moving, bounding behind one of the superstructures on the platform, panting, and checking around the corner.

After several minutes, feeling safe, and realizing that this was _not_ his platform, he began sprinting back across the oil rig. There were only two besides the center platform, and the other one had to be the right one. Even if he was wrong, it'd at least put more distance between him and that cell.


	5. Chapter 4: Return to Form

"Eagle, you'll be designated as pilot in command for this deployment. Antelope, you're the copilot. Callsign, as standard, is Pequod. The Boss'll let you know the dropoff point when you get closer, but be prepared for anything. The 40th Army has been performing more and more sorties over Afghanistan, so be prepared in case a Krokodil or MiG decides you're a target of opportunity. Osprey, you're on gunner duty with Pequod. Any questions?"

Antelope raised his hand slightly.

"Yes?"

"Croc, what will our mission be while we're there?"

"That's up to the Boss, Your job's just to cover him. Wait for his go on air support, don't need to burn a whole village unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Roger."

"Be ready to step off at 1300, Boss wants to arrive under the cover of darkness. Dismissed."

Antelope checked his watch. 1157. He nodded and stood up, going over to the pilot-in-command. He extended his hand. "Winged Antelope, Rhodesian Air Force."

The other pilot returned his handshake. "Blue Eagle. U.S. Air Force. Saw stories about you in _Soldier of Fortune_ every time I went to the mall. Fireforce and all that…"

"Seems like that's how everyone outside of Africa heard about Rhodesia."

"The stories were pretty convincing. Had a lot of friends talk about going to fight in Rhodesia until uh…"

"Yeah." Antelope responded, wincing at the thought. "1980, when the world sold us." He continued.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"No need to apologize, just something we're all still coming to grips with. Anyway, which seat do you prefer?"

"What?"

"In the helo, left or right pilot's seat?"

"Right? I'm the pilot, so I take right, right?"

Antelope shook his head. "Nah. Fireforce ops I preferred the left when flying fire support, helped me direct the gunner's fire and see what he was seeing. Copilot took care of the rest, and communication was done by the stick leader in the back."

"I see. Completely foreign to me, but it's fine by me. I'm used to the right anyway. Just don't get thinking you're the pilot in command yet."

"Hah, roger that sir."

"No sirs please. We're all equals now in the eyes of the Boss."

 _What's up with the Boss? I don't understand it. He's got a lot of scars, and sure, his men convinced me to join, but what's with the worship?_

"Yeah, I gotcha. So what're we doing on these missions?"

Eagle leaned in a little closer. "If I'm gonna be honest, we're not much more than a glorified taxi service. But if things get hairy, that's when we come in as fire support. Osprey controls the gun on the left side of the chopper, I'm in charge of the one on the right."

"I've barely got experience with the Blackfoot though save for a day or two of studying, are you positive I'm useful in this?"

Eagle waved his hand dismissively. "You flew helis in Rhodesia, I'm sure you'll be fine if I get shot. Otherwise, just make sure the Reds aren't coming for our ass, and if they are, let me or Osprey know."

"I think I get the picture."

"And if you're that shaky in your abilities, just watch. I'm sure you'll pick it up."

"Right. When should I meet you at the helicopter?"

"1245 for a preflight checkover."

"Got it. See you there."

"See you."

As Eagle walked to confer with Osprey, Antelope went over to the desk behind which Crocodile had just given his briefing. It was his first mission with a new bird, and judging by the cleanliness of the helicopters, noseart was likely banned. Picking up a black permanent marker, he looked at the white back of his flight helmet, and pondered. After a few seconds, he began writing. Across the bottom of the back of his helmet now read 'RHODIE RUNNER' in cursive that would have made the nuns in primary school bat him with a ruler. Putting the marker back on the table, he cracked a small smile.

Turning around, he began heading for the door. But before he could get out, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned around to see Osprey with a look of concern on his face. "Dude, what's wrong?" he asked. "You looked like you saw a ghost last night."

"I guess you could say that, yeah."

"What? Is Mother Base haunted now?"

"If I said yes, would you believe me?"

"Come on man, ghosts aren't real. But seriously, what happened? Croc said you were all jolly during the blackjack game last night, but you look like you had a near-death experience."

"When someone appears out of nowhere in the middle of the night and you didn't expect them, wouldn't you be a little startled too?"

"I was a brown job on Fireforce, that's how most of our encounters with terrs in the bush went. But what do you mean just appeared out of nowhere, like you just got startled by someone, or are we talking like out of thin air?"

"Out of thin air man. One second I'm sitting there listening to some music on one of the platforms alone. Next thing I know, I look up, and there's some brunette in a bikini standing there staring me down like she just caught me snapping pics of her dressing."

"Oh…her."

"Who?"

"Quiet."

"Another codename, or are you just telling me to shut up?"

"Both. She could be anywhere right now."

Antelope lowered his voice. "Okay, well, who is she?"

"Someone…or some _thing_ the Boss brought back from an operation in Afghanistan."

He furrowed his brow. "Thing?"

"Yeah. You know how she showed up out of nowhere?"

"Yeah?"

"That wasn't her just being stealthy. She can just…disappear."

"What." he said flatly.

"She can disappear at will, and that cell? Please, she's gotten out of it more times than I can count."

"So she's hostile then? Why didn't she kill me?"

Osprey shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. Rumors abound about her, that she's with Cipher, but who knows, maybe she wanted you to get out, or she thought it'd be funny to scare you."

"She's with Cipher? The ones that we're _fighting_? The ones that destroyed Rhodesia because we wouldn't bend to their will?"

"Calm down. The Boss trusts her, and it's not our place until she starts causing problems."

"Fine." Antelope said with a huff.

"Get used to her, Boss has been taking her on missions, and who knows, maybe she isn't so bad. Either way, I'll let you go, get the aircraft ready. If she's there, stay calm. I don't need a dead Rhodie."

Antelope nodded, and spun on his heel, walking quickly towards the helipad.

…

He ran his hand along the side of the fuselage of the UTH-66, checking for any dings, stress fractures, or imperfections. Finding none, he checked off the final item on the exterior inspection checklist. Stepping into the cockpit of the Blackfoot, he began buckling himself in as Eagle ran through the pre-startup checklist.

"Pre-startup checklist complete, exterior inspection?"

"Satisfactory, no signs of structural stress, all control surfaces connected."

"Roger. Alright, let's get through startup. Helmet connected to aircraft? I am connected."

"I am connected as well."

"Harness secured, I am secure."

"Secured as well."

"Roger. Booster pumps on, pumps drawing from both tanks, magnetos on, ready for startup."

"Ready.". He stuck his head out the open window. "Clear rotors!"

"Startup initiated."

The twin turbines of the Blackfoot came to life with a whine, and the rotor began to spin, slowly at first, but speeding up.

On the console, the displays lit up, showing no alert lights. "All systems nominal, no warning lights."

"Roger that."

"Startup checklist complete."

"Osprey here, secured and ready to rock and roll."

"Time check?"

"1255."

"Roger that, five minutes until the Boss and whoever he's bringing along show up."

There was silence for several moments, then Eagle spoke again. "Excited?"

"You might say that."

"You're still scared?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be, three years of flying in a combat zone and surviving makes for exceptional piloting no matter what."

"…I'm not sure it's necessarily that Eagle."

"What?"

Osprey pondered his next choice of words. "He got the silent unseen treatment."

"Oh…well, don't worry, her bark is a lot worse than her bite."

"What bark?" Osprey said with a laugh.

"Fair enough. But honestly, don't be afraid of her."

"I don't know how you can say that…someone who worked with _them_ who you can disappear and reappear at will." Antelope practically hissed.

"Guys, shut up, here comes the Boss."

Eagle turned around to look at the eyepatch wearing mercenary. "Afghanistan right Boss?"

"Yeah."

"DZ?"

"Just outside of Wialo."

"Roger that. Antelope, your aircraft, turn heading one two seven."

"My aircraft, departing, turn heading one two seven."

Antelope throttled up on the collective, and lifted the Blackfoot off. As he pushed the stick forward, he smiled at the responsiveness of the helicopter. As he pulled off the landing pad, he felt a _thunk_ on the port side of the helicopter. Looking at the rearward mirrors, he expected to have seen a piece of gear come loose.

He _expected_ to. Instead, there she was. That woman they called Quiet, hanging off the handhold near the gunner's seat. Biting his lip and gripping the control stick harder, he turned the Blackfoot onto the stated heading. "Cruising speed…150 knots, on our way to Afghanistan."

Eagle looked over at him. "Dude, you okay?" over the inter-crew communications.

"Yeah…I'm fine."

"Don't get freaked out. My aircraft."

"Your aircraft."

"Alright, she's put on autopilot, will maintain heading and speed for several hours until we come up on Afghanistan."

"Roger."

…

"Hey Antelope."

The pilot looked back as he heard the Boss's voice. "Yeah?"

"What's that written on the back of your helmet? I can't read your chicken scratching."

"Rhodie Runner."

"Rhodie Runner? What's that, a reference to that old Roadrunner cartoon?"

"A little bit." he replied with a smile. "Rest of it comes from Op Gatling."

"I don't think I've heard of that."

"1978, us blue jobs flew into Zambia and bombed the hell out of a camp there, in and out like the old Roadrunner."

"Oh…" Snake replied, his words drifting off.

"Surprised you never heard about it, was all over the news the day after. 'RHODESIAN AIRCRAFT BOMB ZAMBIA' and all manner of other things. They weren't wrong, but it was an attack on the floppies, not on Zambia. But I guess now it all makes sense, it was Cipher's doing painting us as the terrorists." he scoffed, happy the Boss was in the rear right corner of the cargo bay, or the Aerial Command Center as Eagle had been calling it.

"But…it was a thrill like nothing else, and it was payback for the murder of civilians. I had only gotten into the squadron a few months before, and to take part in a mission like Gatling…it was a privilege." he continued as the Boss looked down at his handheld computer.

"Sorry. Reminiscing about home again."

Osprey cut in. "Where were you from again Antelope?"

"Bulawayo."

"Oh man, you were a city boy. Shabani."

"Cattle farmer?"

"Yeah."

"Seems like that was the whole economy there. Met more than a few RLI from there, they were all cattle farmers too."

"You still got your wings?"

"Of course." Antelope said, reaching into the pocket of his flying jacket, and drawing out a pair of embroidered pilot's wings on a black felt backing. The once bright white of the wings themselves had become a light brown, and the once vibrant colors of the lion and the Rhodes coat of arms had faded to a shadow of their former selves.

"Can I see them?"

"Sure." he said as he reached his hand back, and Osprey took hold of the wings.

"Hand-sewn?"

"So they told us."

"They're nice."

"Yeah. It's all that's left of Rhodesia for me." he said, blinking back some tears, remembering the life he had to leave behind. "But…it's something to remind me that no matter the fact that Bob took over, that we were forced to end the war, I'll have my own little piece of UDI to keep alive."

"Rhodesians never die?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Hey, watch it!" Osprey said as Antelope reached his hand back to take back his wings. Craning his neck back, he saw Quiet had grabbed the wings instead. As he opened his mouth to yell at her for taking them, he realized she was staring at them, studying them. She looked at the wings, then back up at the Rhodesian pilot, then back at the wings again with a look on her face that Antelope could not tell was a neutral one, or of concentration or sympathy.

She extended her hand towards the pilot, her expression unchanging. "Thanks." he said, taking his wings back and placing them back into his flight jacket.


	6. Chapter 5: First Impression

"Coming up on 40th Army territory, look alive people."

Antelope awoke with a start from his fitful sleep in the ACC. Unhooking his helmet from the intercrew communications jack, he undid his harness and stood up, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the Blackfoot's interior. Nudging Osprey with his boot, the gunner awoke and looked around, taking several seconds to get his bearings.

Brushing past the sniper, who was still somehow wide awake after several hours of flying, he stepped over the center console, and took up his position in the cockpit, strapping himself back in and reconnecting his helmet's communication system.

Eagle spoke up. "I caught a few MiGs and Krokodils on patrol on our way in, as well as a couple anti-air radar pings, we're gonna have to come near Wialo good and low. Antelope?"

"Yeah?"

"Your aircraft, take us in low and fast just like Fireforce ops. Follow the valley, you'll spot Wialo, dropzone is any farmland in the area near there."

"Roger that. Hang on."

Pulling back on the stick, he drew back on the collective, dropping the helicopter to what he estimated to be around 100 feet above the ground, and proceeded to throttle up, pushing the helicopter forward. Weaving through the canyon, he watched for searchlights, enemy patrols, anything that might give warning of their approach. But it was eerily quiet. It may have been night, but a lack of small arms fire directed at the helicopters from the ground was a surprise. A pleasant one, but all the same, it was strange to fly peacefully so close to the ground after the Bush War.

"Coming up on the DZ, see that poppy field at our 10?"

"Got it." Antelope responded, pulling the helicopter into a steep turn, bringing it level above the field.

"See, you're pretty good with her?" said Eagle. "Alright Boss. We're on call when you need us."

"Roger that. See you when we see you."

The Boss snapped up a quick salute, jumping out of the helicopter, followed quickly by Quiet.

"My aircraft."

"Your aircraft."

The helicopter quickly rose up, turning back towards an outcropping on one of the edges of the nearby valley. Pulling the helicopter in for a landing, Eagle's touchdown was smooth and controlled in spite of the brownout conditions in the seconds leading up to landing and the fact the helicopter had no running lights in the dark of night.

"Shutting down, booster pumps will remain on."

"Roger that."

As the rotors and engines quieted and stopped, Antelope unbuckled himself, stepping over the center console back into the ACC. He removed his helmet, placing it on the seat next to him. "I think I just set a record for my longest flight." he said with a tired smile.

"Never were in the field for more than a few hours?"

"No Osprey, I didn't enjoy rolling around in the mud and being done up in blackface in the African sun. I do enjoy missions like Gatling though. 15 minutes, make the run, get the hell out before the enemy knows what's happening. I don't like to stick around after they kick the elephant."

"True enough."

"So how long do the missions with the Boss last?"

"Anywhere from a few hours to a few days."

" _Days?_ Jesus fuckin' Christ." he said, putting his head back against the rear of the crash seat.

"I doubt it though. Last time he was out that long, good old Ocelot dumped a bucket of seawater on him."

"Oh, good. Same treatment for the crew?"

"Nah, I got off lucky and snuck by while he was berating him."

Antelope smiled. "Just like any good Scout."

"If I can't use my training, what good am I?"

"I think that goes without saying for most of us. Hey, think you could catch the Boss while he's sneaking in?"

"From this vantage point? Easier than spotting a load of loud terrs in the bush."

"You willing to put your pride as a tracker on the line for that?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright then, show me." Antelope said, grabbing a pair of binoculars from a crew bag stowed under his crash seat and handing them over, practically shoving them into Osprey's arms. Reaching under the next seat, he got a pair of his own, and moved over to the open door, sitting with his legs dangling off the side.

Nearly a minute passed with Osprey simply scanning back and forth until he finally spoke.

"Alright, see that poppy field we dropped them off in?"

"Yeah?"

"Follow it towards the village until you see a drainage ditch."

"Okay…got it."

"Leading into that drainage ditch, there's a gully with a footbridge across it, guard standing sentry on the side closest to us."

"…got it."

"Alright, check under the far side, see him?"

"…no."

"Zoom."

"Uh…wait…I think I see him."

Antelope spotted a glint in the moonlight, and zoomed in as far as his binoculars could possibly go. And there, lying nearly completely flat on the ground, was the Boss. He blended right into the shadows below the bridge, and unless he was right upon him, he wouldn't have been able to spot him.

"Got him." he said, lowering his binoculars and turning to the former Selous Scout, who had a smug grin spreading across his face. "I told you so." he said.

"Fair enough, you win. Eagle, you're good with aerial searching right?"

"Yeah." the pilot called back from the cockpit, looking up from his logbook and other assorted papers he was scribbling on. "I flew CSAR, and was pretty damn good at it too if I do say so myself." he continued.

"Well, you think you could spot Quiet?"

"Her? Hah, don't make me laugh, no way in hell she could evade me." he replied. "Hey Osprey, hand me those binocs, I'll find her." he continued.

He put them up to his eyes, and began searching. A minute passed, and then several more. Pulling them down from his eyes with a look of frustration, he brought them up again, continuing to search. Suddenly, a _crack_ sounded, and a flash was seen in the distance. "Found her."

"After you get shot at? By a sniper like that, you're a dead man." Osprey responded.

"Least I found her."

"Can't argue there." Antelope chimed in. "We didn't say 'find her before she kills someone' just 'find her'."

He sighed. "Welp, we've played our own version of I Spy and there aren't any dirty magazines for us to browse and criti-"

"What about Quiet?"

"Let's not and never say we did. I like sleeping without the fear of someone coming into my room and slitting my throat. I get you Scouts liked to live life on the edge, so do I as a pilot, but at least with eating rotten baboon or doing a cross-border raid, you've got a 50/50 chance of making it back. Right now if we do that and get caught, we got like a..95/5 chance we get our asses beat." he said, pausing for a few moments. "Now that's not saying I _wouldn't_ …you know…but you get the point…" he said, trailing off with a laugh.

"Too much time in the bush?"

"Since 1980, absolutely. CFA paid well, but damn they don't seem to have realized the importance of letting your guys go on leave often. Hell, even if I hadn't spent so much time in Angola I was on the verge of bosbefok, I'd _still-_ "

"Bosbefok?" said Eagle, leaning back slightly with a confused look on his face.

"Right, I forgot you don't speak Afrikaans. Fucked by the bush, too much time spent in the field. Thousand-yard stare, seeing things that aren't there, all that stuff."

"Oh…yeah. PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"Hm. Most clinical term I've heard for it in a while."

"Seems that way, used to be just shellshock. Then it was-"

Suddenly, a series of shots rang out from the village below, and the Blackfoot's radio came to life with the Boss's voice. "Pequod, we need support NOW! The Soviets found us out, and they've called in reinforcements to Wialo!"

"On it Boss!" Eagle said, bounding back into the pilot's seat. Antelope followed suit, grabbing his helmet, hooking it into the communications system and pulling down his night-vision goggles, not bothering to secure the chinstrap. "No checklists, engine start, once we're over, your ship Antelope."

"Roger."

"Secure here in the back, let's roll!

Within thirty seconds, the chopper had lifted off, and turned towards the village. "Coming up on the village, Antelope, your ship!"

"My ship. Pilot to tech, initiating left-hand Fireforce fire support pattern."

Opening the throttle, Antelope threw the Blackfoot into a steep left hand turn, circling the village. The helicopter, in spite of its size, was amazingly responsive, outdoing even the nimble Alouette. Behind him, he could hear the whir of the electric motor of the helicopter's minigun, and soon after, the vibrations and noise like a swarm of angry bees as the multi-barreled weapon began to rain fire down on the Soviets below.

Checking outside, through the green filter of his goggles, Antelope could see the Soviet soldiers in the village scattering under the fire, moving indoors for cover. "Gunner, adjust your fire to the building with the Soviet flag, we've got them running."

"Roger." came over the radio, and soon the light trails left by the tracers moved onto the roof of the building, the armor-piercing rounds easily punching through the sandstone structure.

"Boss, fire direction?"

With the sound of gunfire in the background, the Boss's voice came over the radio again. "Got the target, but can't extract right now. Mortar teams firing flares above me and zeroing in on Quiet, and a squad of troops moving through the fields towards the village."

Scanning around, Antelope spotted the trail from a mortar round. "Osprey, you got that trail?"

"Got it, firing."

"We've also got a unit of infantry moving through the fields towards the village. Adjusting fire support pattern."

Flying out further from the village and returning to the racetrack pattern, the pilot continued scanning off the left side, looking for any targets of opportunity as Osprey's minigun mowed down every Soviet soldier unfortunate enough to be spotted by the helicopter.

Suddenly, several tracers whizzed past the helicopter. "Ack-ack!" Antelope cried, turning his head in an attempt to spot where the fire was coming from as more rounds slammed into the fuselage, many coming dangerously close to the cockpit. "Osprey, you got an angle?!"

"Almost, he's coming into my sights, got him!" he said, spraying the heavy machine gun as it let loose with another burst of rounds. Several slammed into the cockpit, shattering parts of the windscreen. But the Soviets' resistance was faltering, and they were regrouping, hopefully long enough that the team would be able to extract.

However, above the noise of the helicopter's engines and Osprey's fire on the surviving Reds, he heard a groan. Looking to his right, Antelope saw one of the rounds had nicked Eagle. The high-caliber round had blown off the rear of his flying helmet, and there was a wound on his skull from which blood and what looked like brain matter was leaking out.

Quickly unbuckling himself, he leaned over, ensuring he kept his feet on the rudder pedals and his hand on the control stick, and placed his hand over the wound, attempting to keep what he could in.

He keyed his mic. "Boss, this is Pequod, we need to extract _now_. One of our crew's sustained a head injury. Touching down in the field just outside of the village."

Boss responded, but Antelope could barely hear it, and didn't care. Controlling the helicopter with one hand, he leveled out his turn, and brought back the throttle, attempting to ease the aircraft in for landing, his free hand constantly shifting between the collective and control stick to make adjustments, his legs controlling the latter as he adjusted the former.

He leaned out the shattered copilot's window as Boss came up with a target, and Quiet appeared seemingly out of nowhere. As they boarded the helicopter, he turned back into the ACC, and barked at the crew. "Someone, give me a hand!"

Standing up, Osprey came over and lifted Eagle out of the pilot's seat, lying him on his side on the crash seats. "I got him, go!" he yelled as he opened one of the first aid kits, and began attempting to stem the hemorrhaging from the pilot's head, securing gauze pad after gauze pad to the wound as they became saturated and began to leak.

Lifting off, Antelope turned the helicopter south towards the Seychelles. The Soviets would be responding to the attack on the village, and time was of the essence.

…

"Mother Base control, this is Pequod, declaring an emergency, landing at the helipad on the Medical Platform."

"Roger that Pequod, dispatching teams to the helipad immediately."

Antelope took another deep breath as he swung the helicopter in low around the oil platform. Coming up on the pad, he eased up on the throttle, and brought it in for a landing. It was harder than expected and his harness's straps dug into his shoulders, but he remained in his seat. Hopefully Quiet and the Boss had had the same presence of mind that he did, else they'd be in the wards for head trauma as well. Quickly shutting down the Blackfoot's engines, Antelope took off his helmet, running his hands through his hair as the medical teams rushed Eagle off the chopper and towards the medical bays on what was evidently a metal stretcher judging by the clanging going on behind him.

He undid his straps and took off his flight jacket and simply laid his head back on his seat, taking in deep breaths. It was pitch-black out, save for the lights on the oil platform, and as the shouts and sounds of the medical team moving Eagle faded away, all that was left was the sound of the engine shutting down.

He had barely known Eagle, but he had never lost a fellow airman, not during a Fireforce operation, not during a cross-border raid into Zambia, never. But on his first mission, in a new aircraft, he had already lost someone. It made him feel sick.

Antelope put his head in his hands, and simply sat in his crash seat, trying not to weep, not openly at least. After all, there was still a chance for Eagle, and crying would show the stress got to him in front of the Boss and whoever else was around. He looked up, and saw someone in the other seat through the reflection of the cockpit mirrors. Looking over to his right, he saw Quiet sitting in Eagle's crash seat, a look of concern on her face, and Osprey sat in the ACC with a look of understanding on his.

Antelope sighed, and looked at the sniper sitting across from him. In any other case, he would have been terrified, but now, he was just tired, too drained. "You ever been in this position?"

She nodded.

"Guess I'm not the only one. But…I lose Rhodesia, I lose the CFA, and now on my first mission, I lose my first fellow airman when I'm at the controls. It's…it's no fun, but I guess you know that if you've been through it."

She hummed in such a way as if to affirm what he said.

"It wasn't your fault. That was chance." Osprey said.

"I guess so. I'm just exhausted. I'll sleep on it, maybe I'll feel better tomorrow if Eagle's still okay."

"Alright man. Stay focused. This wasn't your fault, it was that of the Soviets. I'm here for you as a fellow Rhodesian. We all gotta stick together, right?"

Quiet hummed what seemed to be an affirmation of what Osprey had said again.

"Yeah…thanks." he said as he donned his flying jacket again. Stepping out of the helicopter, he put his hand on the fuselage to steady himself, before continuing to stumble forward back towards the barracks.


	7. Chapter 6: Pasts

Antelope sat in his dorm on Mother Base, absentmindedly turning over his pilot's wings, running through what had happened in Afghanistan over and over again in his head as the lights buzzed over his head and the quiet hum of machinery elsewhere on the platform. He had barely been able to sleep, and all of his thoughts came back to that phrase of _what if?_ What if he had not been in such a tight orbit? Perhaps the bullet would have just hit the helicopter and caused no harm. But then the Boss might have died, or he would have been shot instead. But no matter what, it was an even chance that that bullet would have hit him or Eagle, and he just so happened to be in the right place at the right time that it missed him completely, maybe only by an inch or two, though he wasn't sure.

That didn't help him feel any better though. Eagle was still in critical condition, and the doctors were still working on him nearly ten hours after they had gotten him into medical. Whether he'd survive at all was up for debate, and a wound like that to the head? Antelope wasn't sure if he'd even be able to lead a normal life unassisted. He took pride in his track record of missions. Never had lost a fellow pilot or gunner tech to enemy fire during his Fireforce sorties or even while he was flying against the MPLA. And yet here he was, on his very first mission with Diamond Dogs, having been forced to turn tail and run from a fight because the pilot-in-command had been nailed with a round.

Worse yet, it wasn't as if he could go out on the town with 3 Commando like he would after a brutal tour in the Bush to escape for a few hours. The only people he had now were his fellow Diamond Dogs, but he wasn't sure how they'd react to him. Besides that, he had a few pieces of his former life, and he could pretend for a few brief wonderful moments that Rhodesia still existed.

He looked up from his wings towards his nightstand. There sat a framed photo of a group of men in flightsuits in front of a Hawker Hunter. He had had the photo on him when he had been…hired, and seemingly someone had been kind enough to place it in a decent frame. Below each of the pilots were signatures, and at the top, 'NO.1 SQUADRON, OP GATLING'. And on the right, third from the edge of the gaggle of pilots, with one hand holding his flying helmet, and the other on the edge of the wing, there he was with a big smile across his face. It couldn't have been taken more than fifteen minutes after landing from the raid. His parachute and survival gear were still on, and his short hair still showed visible signs of having been under a helmet for a prolonged period.

A smile like that he had in the photo spread across his face as he remembered that day. All of them had been bristling with confidence as they came back from bombing Zambia and felt invincible. If someone wouldn't have, the were probably too aware of their own mortality to be a pilot in the first place. A bomb run into another country and getting away with it without a single finger raised by the other country's air force? Maybe Eagle had been right, and Rhodesian pilots like Antelope were just _that good_. But again, the guilt washed over him. If he was that good, maybe he'd have realized the danger that was facing them in Afghanistan and adjusted accordingly.

He tried to push the feelings out of his head. No matter what, he couldn't change the course of bullets or what enemy gunners aimed for, and all it'd do was psyche him out. Luck or no, it had happened, and he had to be ready to perform. Dwelling on the what ifs wouldn't fix anything. He stood up again, and placed the Gatling photo back in its original place.

Looking up at himself in the mirror, Antelope realized a substantial amount of stubble had begun to grow on his face. The old WO would have made him wish he had never grown a single patch of facial hair if he had shown up to morning roll call in such a state back when he was a dog in ground school. He sighed. It all came back to Rhodesia. Even if it wasn't coming back, the green and white still flew in his mind.

 _Is this what Dad thought constantly about Ukraine?_ he mulled over mentally as he grabbed a can of shaving cream. His father's reminiscences about that far away land as a child had never made sense to him, not until now. As he began to shave, he realized he was doing the same thing his dad did. Sometimes as a child, he'd catch him looking longingly at the photo that always sat on the mantle of their home in Bulawayo.

He never knew exactly what his dad was wearing in the photo, but whenever company was over, they'd hide it away. It was a standard 1940s black and white portrait, with him in a uniform that looked a lot like what the Germans wore in _Kelly's Heroes_ , but with a dark collar, and instead of the columnlike insignia, on one part of the collar was no insignia, and on the other a lion rampant. Whenever he asked, he'd simply get the response "I fought for Ukraine.", usually followed by an order to never tell anyone at school about the photo.

As he shaved, the door to his dorm opened, seemingly on its own. As he whirled around, reaching for his pistol, he quickly realized there was no one there as it closed. He sighed, looking back at himself in the mirror, cursing silently as a spot of red appeared on his chin. Finishing shaving, he took his towel, dabbing off the blood, replacing it with some ointment. Placing everything back in the vanity, he turned around and scanned the room. Looking at his bed, he saw the mattress was sagging at one specific spot.

"You're not fooling anyone. Easy to spot this close."

Out of thin air materialized the scantily-clad sniper. Antelope's lip curled in an involuntary look of disgust at the former Cipher agent, something Quiet seemed unbothered by. "What do you want?"

She said nothing, simply looking back at him. "For the love of God, drop the act." he snorted contemptuously. "I know us Rhodesian pilots didn't like it when women talked too much, but not talking at all is just going too far." he continued jokingly, it evidently falling flat by the unamused expression on her face.

She gestured with her hands in a writing motion.

"Pen and pad?"

She nodded.

"Fine." he said, pulling a pen out of his sleeve pockets and a pad usually reserved for operational notes out of one of his flightsuit's breastpockets, handing them over to her as she began writing.

She handed the pad back to him. Her writing wasn't half-bad. Certainly better than his chicken scratchings. _You're not the usual pilot who flew, who are you?_

"Me? Guess I'm the new…Pequod, is it? That is, if Eagle ends up going to Tsanga Tsanga."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Right…Valhalla?"

She nodded in understanding, and gestured at the note again.

"Don't know how it's your business, but it can't hurt. Winged Antelope, formerly known as Flight Lieutenant Christopher Gerry, Rhodesian Air Force." he said, the latter part of his sentence laced with pride. He handed the pad back to her, and she began writing again.

 _Rhodesia?_

"Yes, the green and white? Unilateral independence, now that shithole known as Zimbabwe because of yo-because of Cipher."

Her eyes became downcast for a moment.

 _I know._

"How, hm? Do you actually have a pang of regret for what the people you worked for did in Rhodesia?" he spat back. He wasn't sure how old she was, but she was certainly old enough to remember the country.

 _Yes._

"Were you there?"

 _Yes._

"With who?"

Quiet's mind began to race. It was obvious the Rhodesian pilot was studying her, and not the same kind of studying that most of the guards did when they first saw her.

 _I was born in Rhodesia._

"Really? What city?"

 _Bulawayo._

Her heart beat quicker as she grew increasingly nervous, silently thanking the parasites for the fact she could no longer sweat. She had faced her past with Big Boss and come to see him as a comrade and a friend, and had decided now was the time to confront her past in the southern African country.

And she was regretting it. She had hoped the pilot might be more mellow and less threatening than the former special operations troops that had been brought into Diamond Dogs, but that was not shaping up to be the case. He had seemed almost afraid of her, and not necessarily willing to cause trouble with her, even less so when he was seemingly spending all his energy on mourning the loss of a comrade. But now, face to face, if anything, he seemed angrier than the others.

"Ain't that some shit. That's where I was from. What secondary school did you go to?"

 _We moved to America when I was young._

"Did you ever return?"

She stared down at the pad, unsure of what to write. She thought of what she had done and seen in the last year of the war in Rhodesia, the killings, the torture of kidnapped Rhodesian officers and men by the guerrillas under the guidance of Cipher, everything. It all came back to her, and even though she had no use for her stomach anymore, she felt sick.

 _I fought there._

Antelope's mind began to race. Was Cipher actually on the side of Rhodesia? A white woman working side-by-side with ZANLA? They'd have publicized the devil out of it as a sign that the 'racist regime of Rhodesia' as they called it did not have support from either race. "What years?"

 _1979 to 1980._

He took a deep breath. The final two years of the war that seemingly had defined the rest of his life. "I don't even know why you're talking to me about this. I was Air Force on the frontlines. If anything, you were Rhodesia Regiment alongside the rest of the women who were in the Army, no shared experiences. You don't seem too bent out of shape about what was lost in Rhodesia, and it's not like we can reminisce about our younger days in Bulawayo.

A prolonged silence ensued, the only noise that of the climate control and the pen tapping against the pad.

 _I want to atone for my sins._

"What is this, confession? Go to the chaplain for that, I don't regret anything I did, and if you fought the terrs, you shouldn't either."

 _No. For what I did._

"Quit dancing around the issue. _What_ did you do?"

She had dug herself into this hole, now she had no choice. Lying about her service or coming clean, either option was no good.

 _I was with…them._ _I did whatever Cipher told me._

"Who's them? The guerrillas?"

Quiet nodded, her eyes downcast.

Antelope was unable to speak. He ran his hand through his hair, and he began taking deeper and deeper breaths. He leaned back against the wall and let out a scream as he began to cry, unsure himself if it was of sadness or of rage.

"You…you and Cipher…you're the reason I'm here today…reason only memories are what I have now…I can never go home." he choked out between sobs.

He put his hand by his side, resting on his Hi-Power, another piece of his past. And then she was gone, leaving him again alone in his dorm room.


	8. Chapter 7: Tensions

Sorry for the delay, things have been busy as of recently. As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and reviews of the story, if you think it's good, bad, or ugly, are always appreciated!

* * *

"Second room on the right."

"Roger, thanks."

Antelope walked through the halls of the intensive care unit on the medical platform. It was much quieter than he thought, the sterile white halls only filled with the noise of medical machines and the hushed murmurs of doctors and nurses conversing with one another. Coming up to the designated room, Antelope rapped on the door.

"Come in." came out muffled behind the door. Walking in, he saw Eagle with a smile on his face. All things considered, he looked healthy, with a sterile white bandage wrapped around his head the only sign something was wrong

"Antelope." he said with a smile. "About time you came to see how I was doing." he continued.

"Sorry, but I can't go looking over the doctors' shoulders while they're busy working on your cranium."

Eagle rolled his eyes. "Fair enough. What happened? The docs didn't exactly tell me, and I only came to after they operated on me. All they told me was I got hit in the back of the head."

"Yeah. We…I was flying the Fireforce pattern for fire support, Soviet opened up with a heavy machine gun, missed me, clipped the back of your head."

"And that was over Wialo?"

"Yeah. Grabbed the back of your head to hold your brains in, extracted the two pretty soon after, firewalled the throttle back here. What'd the docs say?"

"Said they're not quite sure what's going to happen. The round really scrambled the back of my head. Not badly, but it was pretty bloody. I'm not qualified for flight at all until they run more tests to see if I'm going to be having seizures or not. If I do, I'm no longer qualified for solo flight. If I don't…well, I'd still prefer to have you as my copilot."

"Really? Why? That mission didn't exactly go as planned."

Eagle waved his hand. "I just got unlucky." he said. "And." he continued, lowering his voice. "If the Boss hadn't blown his cover, we would've had it made. Plus, not like there's many other pilots around here."

Antelope cracked a small smile, one of the first he had since the Afghanistan mission. "Well thanks. Makes me feel better about what happened."

"Sometimes you're just unlucky. You've been a combat pilot long enough, you know just as well as I that shit happens, best you can do is roll with it and do what you can. And we're both alive aren't we?"

"I suppose you have a point."

"Man, I know I do. Don't forget, I've flown in combat just as much as you have."

"Was it in Rhodesia though?"

"Some time in the Air Force in Vietnam's just about the same. You kiss and make up with Quiet yet?"

"Who said I didn't? She's gorgeous, but I'd be more afraid of her stabbing me to death while we did."

"Oh boy, I wish I had some popcorn for this."

"Ah go piss into the wind." he said as Eagle chuckled. "She bloody well came and visited me yesterday."

"Like in your dorm?"

"No, over at the pisser. Of course it was in my dorm."

"Really?" Eagle said, sitting up straighter in his bed. "Why did she?"

"Beat me at first, but she wanted to 'do her penance' or something that sounded like what I heard at Mass."

"She spoke?"

"No. Gave her a pen and pad and I communicated that way."

"Oh. You said something about Penance?"

"Yeah. She wanted forgiveness or to do something to make up for what she had done in Rhodesia." Antelope said, rubbing his forehead

"Was she with the commies?"

"Of course."

"And what did you do?"

Antelope looked around the room and outside to make sure no one was in earshot. "I uh…I kind of lost it and went for my pistol."

"And?"

"She ran away as soon as I touched my Hi-Power."

"Can't say I blame her." Eagle said, shaking his head. "Though who knows with her, even if you shot at her, she could have disarmed or killed you, and it would have been justified in the Boss's eyes. But she didn't stay."

"Why does he keep her around? She's murdered for Cipher, why trust her with us when we're fighting them?"

"I don't know. I really don't."

Antelope snorted slightly. "Boss needs to make a decision on that murderer. I'm not here for him, I'm not here for money. I'm here for Rhodesia alone, and I'll be damned if I fight alongside who was responsible for why I'm here."

Eagle looked down, his cheerful expression turning dour. "Don't let the Boss or Ocelot hear you say that. God knows what they do to people they can't trust."

"They can't trust me?" Antelope's face contorted into a scowl. "But they can trust a terrorist from Cipher?"

Eagle shrugged, or as much as he could. "I don't know. But be wary. Word gets out you pulled a gun on her, you could be out of here in hours."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"What are you really here for, Gerry?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Antelope shot back.

"Do you even really care about the other Diamond Dogs, or are you here for Rhodesia, and damn everyone and everything else?"

Antelope sighed heavily, looking down at the floor. "Do you know what it's like to lose it all?"

"I do. I was in Vietnam. We lost there, and when-"

"But did you lose the U.S.?"

"In a sense, yes. We were the soldiers of that war that we wanted to forget. The war we lost."

"And that's why you came here."

"I drifted around for a while, but yes, found Diamond Dogs."

"Let me answer your question then." Antelope said, standing up and pacing around the room. "I care about my nations, my home. Rhodesia was my first homeland, and I'd sooner leave it all behind than make nice with someone who helped destroy it."

"Is it really that important to you?"

"Yes. Yes it is. The Bush War made me the pilot I am, you yourself said it. The country raised me, I fought for it, and it drives me to keep going."

"Why?"

"It just does."

"Guess I just can't understand what it's like. Just listen to me. There's people here who have fought for sides you and I would hate to even talk to, but they're all fighting for each other. Just try Antelope."

"Alright. I'll try."

"See you on the flightline."

"See you." Antelope said, standing up and walking out of the room.

As he walked back through the sterile halls of the infirmary, he began to replay the conversation over and over in his head. _Are you here for us or just here for Rhodesia? He can get mad at me all he wants, but he's a goddamn wanker is what he is. I gotta give up everything that made me who I am because of some soldier with an eyepatch who I've never even heard of. Him and that-_

"Antelope?"

The pilot snapped out of it to see a Diamond Dogs soldier. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Boss wants you on the helipad as soon as possible. Grab your flight gear."

"Why?"

The soldier simply shrugged. "Dunno."

"Alright, fine, I'll be down soon."

…

Antelope walked towards the helicopter, helmet in one hand, kneeboard in the other. Sitting in the main cargo bay was again the Boss, and him alone. He glanced up from his iDroid at the approaching Antelope as the crew chief for the helicopter jogged up to Antelope.

"Sir, she's all ready to go."

"Preflight performed?"

"Yes sir. Everything's good."

"Good, I'll verify and then we'll get going."

"Sir." the crew chief said. Pacing around the helicopter, Antelope once again checked over for anything the maintenance crew might have missed. But there was nothing other than a few superficial stress marks, nothing worse than what he'd seen onboard Alouettes. As he came around the front, something was off. The miniguns had been affixed to the stubby little 'wings' on the fuselage. Antelope cocked an eyebrow as he turned to the crew chief. "What's this all about?" he said, gesturing at them.

"Oh, those?" Boss said he wanted the guns forward facing so you could use them.

The pilot made a face that was part confusion, partly intrigued. "Alright then. Works for me. Anything else..."

"Crocodile sir."

"Roger that, anything else Crocodile?"

"Nothing."

"Alright, thanks, clear the helipad."

"Roger that sir."

As he opened the door to the cockpit and stepped in, Antelope noticed a shape off to his right. Craning his head around the crash seat, he saw Quiet. Again. She glanced up at the Rhodesian and quickly turned away, her face turning red as he thumbed his nose at her, letting out a sigh as he did so.

"So where to this time Boss?" Antelope said.

"Central Africa. Zaire-Angola border region, I'll select the LZ."

"Roger." Antelope said, strapping himself into his crash seat and quickly running through the checklist again before throttling up on the collective, turning the helicopter on a southwestern heading for an overland flight over Central Africa.

Looking down at the GPS in the helicopter, he was still incredulous. No charts, no sectionals, just had to follow the line. Looking down at his manual, he saw a subsection under Autopilot labeled Terrain Following Radar (TFR). Flipping on the autopilot switch to hold speed and altitude, he flipped to the page andbegan reading:

 _This aircraft utilizes Terrain Following Radar for automatic 'nap-of-the-earth' following. Refer to Figure 1a for directions for TFR utilization._

Closing the manual and tossing it on the opposite seat, Antelope looked down at the console for the switches that matched the illustration in the book. After a minute of searching, he found it, rotating the knob to five hundred feet, and flipping the switch on. Suddenly, as if by magic, the aircraft began to descend, continuing on its course towards the border region

Unclipping himself, Antelope stood up, stepping over the console towards the seats on the right side of the aircraft. Hooking his helmet jack back into the aircraft, he put his head down on the seat and tried to rest. From the shadows he could tell the Boss was perplexed, looking up in curiosity at the pilot reclining and leaving the cockpit unattended, but he quickly went back to looking at his iDroid.

While he enjoyed sleeping on his side, he instead slept simply on his back this time. As much as he hated Quiet, he couldn't bring himself to flip a coin with his life by starting a fight with her because of a hateful glare. Staring up at the ceiling, without the aircraft on his mind, doubts about her began to creep into his mind. He wondered what was going through her mind. He hated her just as much he hated anyone who voluntarily helped ZANLA and ZIPRA come to power in his once-proud country, but did she hate him too? Whether he wanted to know though, that was another matter entirely.

He let out a long breath, and soon details of the mission also began to race through his mind. _Angola-Zaire..CFA?_

He closed his eyes and tried to forget. He'd get to it in a few hours.


End file.
